Through Their Eyes
by Cytisus
Summary: A series of short stories that I can't justify posting as separate entities. No specific theme: just some one-shots that needed a home.
1. Tanya

I have a few more shorts from NaNoWriMo that I would like to polish up and, rather than posting a bunch of little stories, I will probably just add to here.

And, because I've never actually said this, thank you to all those that take the time to review. I'm not here for that, but it's so lovely to see this little corner of the fandom still teeming with dedicated fans ::cough::twenty::cough:: years later.

* * *

Lucky Puck

* * *

They all lined up on the ice, facing the opposite side. Their opposing team would normally be their mirrors, player lined up with player, before they would get in formation and the puck would drop.

It was your typical respect for one another that the ducks were very familiar with. While Earth certainly had some lax rules and violent tendencies in their version of hockey, poor sportsmanship was not one of them.

Tanya watched as some attendants skated out and adjusted a large, rolled-up tarp on the ice, where their opponents would usually stand.

Instead, their opposing team had stationed themselves to the right of the Mighty Ducks, watching the same area. Only their rival's team captain stood away from the group, next to Wildwing and in between the rest of the ducks.

Tanya's eyes wandered to the crowds surrounding them. The lights were dim and the banter subdued. The announcer had just broadcasted what was about to happen.

Back home hockey was an everyday way of life. Yes, some ducks didn't play; it wasn't unheard of. Many would play in their younger years but eventually grow out of it. But the majority would still play well into their later ages: friends, family, coworkers, and neighborhoods were just a few of the communities that would have hockey games throughout the year.

There was professional hockey, too, though it was probably harder to get into than Earth's strict requirements for their professional sports.

Tanya could not even imagine how a professional hockey player from their world would annihilate the best team of athletes here. Ducks' anatomy made them stronger and more agile than most humans, which made playing hockey here feel like cheating in some respects.

Tanya mentally shrugged it off. With no backup players and the constant requirement of saving the world, they gave the other teams a fair chance to beat them multiple times throughout the season. Hell, they didn't even win the Stanley Cup last year, after all.

With the rolled tarp positioned the way they wanted it, the attendants took the ends of the heavy fabric and unwound it towards Tanya and the rest of the group. She watched as the end of the material stopped about two feet from her team, the wetness of the ice acting like glue and helping to keep the tarp from rolling back up on itself.

Tanya swallowed, uncomfortable with what was about to happen. She didn't do well with these sorts of things. None of the ducks would have had experience with this, either.

Because hockey was such a normal part of their lives back home, special considerations like this weren't done in their professional sports. You didn't have the dedicated song, the funny shirt-launching mascot, or the gaggle of skimpily clad cheerers along the sidelines.

It was hockey, pure and simple. Teams were announced, respect for the upcoming competition was shown, and the game commenced.

When it was over congratulatory remarks were exchanged and the audience went home.

Tanya's drifting mind had caused her to miss the first part of the announcer's statement. She strained to hear the end:

". . . gave their lives for the safety of this city. Please welcome their families to the ice!"

The crowd around them stood and began clapping. On the other side of the stadium some people in Mighty Ducks jerseys emerged and walked out onto the ice, the tarp preventing them from slipping.

The applause was loud but not boisterous. This was a sign of respect and admiration, not encouragement and excitement.

There were two families: two moms, three sons and two daughters. But they were not complete anymore.

Their dads had died in the line of duty.

Over the applause the announcer's voice could be heard: "Their families stand here today as a symbol of strength and unity for our city. We will not forget their sacrifice."

The families lined up facing the ducks and their rival team. The wives of the officers stood in the middle, next to each other and facing the two team captains for tonight's game. The women did not know each other. The officers being honored tonight were from two separate precincts that ended up facing off an armed robbery together.

The wives only ended up meeting in the hospital.

Next to them were their respective children. On the far side were two teenagers, a girl and a boy. The girl's hair was pristine in a bun, the jersey she wore brand new and way too large on her. The boy had spikey blue hair that reminded Tanya of Mookie's, along with some interesting tattoos peeking out from a well-worn jersey with Grin's number on it.

The girl was doing her best to keep a neutral expression, but as the crowd continued to clap and as the large screen above them showed family pictures of the officers, her stony face began to break down.

Her brother had not taken his eyes off the monitor above them, watching the memories of his life swish by in a slideshow. He hadn't seemed to notice that his idol Grin stood in front of him.

Three children stood on Tanya's side, two boys and a girl. Mallory stood in front of the oldest boy, who looked many years younger than the teenagers. He wore a jersey with Mallory's number on it.

The second boy stood next to him and looked to be close in age to his brother. Nosedive stood in front of him even though the boy's jersey had the telltale double zeros of Wildwing's.

Tanya's faceoff was with a tiny little girl with curly red hair. She was the youngest of them all: four years old, according to their debriefing this morning. The jersey she wore was meant for a kid but still swam on her. She also had the double zeros.

The crowd was loud, and the background music added to the heavy effect of absolute submersion of noise and emotion. Tanya did her best to draw a soft grin as she kneeled in front of her counterpart.

"Hi there, I'm Ta—Tanya."

The little girl looked straight at her with big eyes now that Tanya was at her height.

"What's your, uh, name?" Tanya probed when the little girl did not respond.

"Melanie," she softly replied. Tanya's proximity only let her barely hear the small girl. The blonde duck nodded at her and pointed to her jersey. "Are you a fan of Wildwing?"

The little girl cocked her head. "While wind?"

Tanya laughed and decided to take another approach. "I like your shirt."

Melanie beamed at it. "It has eyes on it, just like my daddy's!"

Tanya's smile dissipated quickly, unsure of how to respond to that. She nervously glanced at her other teammates to see them attempting their best at holding conversations with the families.

It felt forced and awkward, but not because they did not sympathize. They came to that same ill-fated armed robbery minutes too late. It was a scene that had burned in Tanya's mind, adding to her collection of horrors from the Saurian War. With all the good they had done on Earth, it felt like nothing compared to the atrocities that occurred to people each day.

It was a civilized trait that seemed to follow with every culture the more intelligent they got. Selfishness, greed, hedonism, and jealousy were just a few of the complex traits that became nothing more than the other half of a double-edged sword as the world became more enlightened.

Tanya swallowed hard and turned her attention back to Melanie. "Your dad was very brave, a-and so are you."

Melanie smiled again, though this time a haunted look crossed her eyes—a look Tanya had seen on too many young faces since the Saurians attacked. "I miss him. Mommy says he will always be with me, but I dunno."

She looked up and around at the crowd, watching them watch her. Tanya followed her gaze briefly. "Why don't you think he'll be, uh, with you?" she asked, bringing both their attention back to the conversation.

"I just don't feel him. If he's with me I should know!"

Tanya smiled, tears glazing the undersides of her eyes. "He is, but—sometimes you need a good reminder."

She reached into her hockey shorts and pulled out a puck. She placed it on her palm and showed it to Melanie.

"Your dad loved hockey, huh?"

Melanie nodded enthusiastically, her eyes watching the puck in the blonde duck's hand.

"Well, what's on this puck?"

Melanie smiled as she looked at it. "It's a heart!"

Tanya grinned back. "That's right! I wonder how that got there?"

Melanie's eyes got big as she looked at the puck and back at Tanya. "That's my daddy! He did that! He _is_ here!" the little girl jumped up and down and looked around her. "Hi Daddy!" she hollered, waving for emphasis.

The crowd, mistaking her wave as a greeting to them, got even louder. Tanya watched Melanie keep her sights around her for a while, still swaying her arm, until she finally looked back at Tanya, her smile as pure as the ice she stood on.

"Well then, I guess you better keep this so your, uh, dad knows where you are!" With only the slightest hesitation Tanya held her hand out further, offering the puck—her Lucky Puck—to Melanie, who took the souvenir graciously.

"Thank you!" she said, hugging the puck to her. "I'm glad I found my daddy."

"I'm, uh, glad you did too, kiddo."

Tanya felt Nosedive gently shove her and she looked up at him.

The blonde teen was smiling at her, evidently having seen what had transpired. "We gotta make the rounds now, yo."

Tanya nodded, standing back up. "It was nice to meet you, Melanie."

Melanie grinned at her, still hugging the simple puck with a heart on it. "Okay, bye nice duck!"

Tanya took a deep breath and skated around to the end of the line, behind the Ducks' rival team. They would each shake hands with the family—all of them—and once all players had thanked the families for their sacrifice, they would clear the rink and the game would begin.

Tanya looked up as she waited, watching the pictures flash by on the jumbotron. Young children that must've been the teens years ago; wife and husband, father and baby; in uniform and with fellow officers. Every photograph that flashed by depicted special moments in these humans' lives. Their families were forever changed, like Tanya's. Like her team's. They couldn't save them, and they would never be able to save them all.

Her eyes drifted to Melanie, at the far end of the line now, shaking hands with Duke as he also bent down to her height. She was smiling and showing him her prize, mouth moving a mile a minute as she most likely told him how her dad was now a puck, with a heart on it, and keeping an eye on her.

Duke, who was kneeling next to the kid, turned his attention to Tanya. She blushed as he gave her a soft—if not slightly bewildered—smile.

She looked away, embarrassed.

Eventually the ducks and the opposing team had all shook hands with the families. Tanya was now back in front of Melanie, the smile on the child seemingly glued on now that she had that puck in her possession.

Tanya found solace in that.

The announcer made one last commemorative statement and the crowd, clapping and cheering for nearly five minutes now, gave one last oomph of applause as the family exited the rink.

She felt a hand on her shoulder as she watched the attendants roll up the tarp again.

"You ne'er cease to surprise me, Angel," Duke said to her softly.

Tanya turned to him and shrugged the compliment off. "It was, you know, just a puck."

"Yeah, but it mean' somethin' to you, Taun. You did a great t'ing tonight, don't kid yerself ot'erwise."

He squeezed her shoulder and released it, giving her his usual lopsided, charming grin that she felt he was way too good at.

She cleared her throat nervously and shrugged again, watching the attendants disappear into the hallways below the rink. She smiled to herself and watched the jumbotron begin counting down to the start of the game, glancing at Duke to see him still giving her that stupid grin of his—twice.

She felt lighter.

 _"Taunny!"_

 _Tanya turned towards the call of her name, smiling at its speaker._

 _"Hey, uh, Tabby," she responded to her little sister._

 _"I made you a present!"_

 _The little girl duck bounded up to Tanya, her brown hair in a tall ponytail that swished rhythmically behind her. She held out her hand to her older sister excitedly._

 _Tanya, attired in her high school's hockey uniform, slightly exaggerated her gasp of surprise at the present being given to her._

 _"That's a-uh, nice puck!" she exclaimed, taking it from Tabby to admire it._

 _"It's your winning puck from last night—I drew a heart on it so you don't lose it!"_

 _Tanya's smile became more genuine as she realized the meaning behind the gift. "Oh, Tabby, it's perfect."_

 _"It's your Lucky Puck!" Tabby explained further, still jumping side to side next to her sister. "It's gonna help you win tonight, too."_

 _"You know it, Tabs!"_

 _Tabby giggled and hugged Tanya around the waist, a gesture the older duck returned gratefully._

 _"All right, sis—go and sit with Mom a-and Dad now."_

 _"Okay. Make sure to start the game with it!"_

 _Tanya laughed and nodded as the duckling bounded out of the locker room with as much energy as she'd entered with. Tanya admired the cute puck again before pocketing it and returning to her preparations for the night's championship game._

 _She'd make sure this puck stayed with her always._

fin


	2. Mallory

The Guardian

* * *

Mallory flew to the side of the wall, hitting the arm rail hard. She grasped to it as the whole hall shook and rumbled, a surround sound of explosions erupting far and wide around her.

She steadied herself and found her pace along the chaotic hallway again. Ducks barreled past her in the opposite direction, none of them giving her a second look. They were most likely heading to the evacuation pods and gliders, a smart move that she should have considered making.

But instead she jogged the other way, cradling her right arm to stop the vibration travelling and worsening the pain she was beginning to feel. The trip into the wall exacerbated the injury, making her grit her teeth as she stumbled along the path.

There was so much smoke blinding her way; debris kept raining down, forcing her to dodge or push herself to the side of the corridor to get through; and heat, there was so much heat!

Right, left, left, straight. There!

She nearly tripped and grabbed a hold of the door jamb to steady herself, the sliding door stuck in a partially open position. She grunted and cried out in frustration as she forced it open.

"—get your ass out of here, Captain!"

Mallory came up to the end of a conversation as she finally entered the room. The ducks in question were at a control station, the large window in front of them completely obstructed by smoke. They were watching the monitors instead, which provided a 3D layout of their surroundings.

"Sir—"

"That's an order, Captain, now get the HELL out of here!"

"Yes, Sir!" the captain, as he was addressed, paused and saluted his commander in Puckworld Military fashion: heart to shoulder and head bow.

The commander—General McMallard—gave a curt head bow in return before seeing Mallory in his peripheral vision. His eyes flashed with hot anger as the captain turned and ran past Mallory, only giving her a brief, curious glance as he passed.

"Cadet, orders have been given to evacuate. I suggest you follow them!"

Mallory took a step forward, still favoring her arm. "Commander General—"

"NOW!" General McMallard grabbed a hold of the station desk as more explosions erupted and shook the entire airship. He turned his attention back to the monitors and began pressing buttons.

Mallory had crumpled against a wall and struggled to pull herself back up during the quake. "You need to evacuate, too!"

McMallard shook his head and looked at her. "We've lost all but one engine. Autopilot can't correct this trajectory—it needs to be guided. I'll head into a pod right after. NOW GO, McMALLARD!"

"Comman—"

"GO!"

"DAD!"

He paused in his actions again, watching his daughter—his only daughter out of a brood of five. He shook his head at her. "Don't let them win, Mallory."

Win. She'd tried her whole life to win, and she never quite got the hang of it. Her two oldest brothers were ten and eight years older than her, respectively. She never really got to know them growing up, and now they were captains while she tried to prove herself as a third-year cadet in the Special Forces; a female one, at that.

Her other brothers were twins. They were less than two years older than her, and they were so protective of her. Mallory knew that they were the only reason she survived her first two years in the strict military program. They were amiable, strong lieutenants that treated their teams with a respect that she had not seen in her years living on a military base.

She would never live up to their leadership. This was the their first year out in the field, both of them having graduated last season. They were both on the fast track to becoming captains themselves, while Mallory was perfecting her icy exterior to keep her fellow cadets off her back.

They were all thriving, and she was just trying to survive.

And Mom. . . .

Mallory never got to meet her mother. Mom had wanted a daughter so desperately that, despite a difficult pregnancy with twins, she convinced Mallory's dad to try one more time.

Complications led to hemorrhaging during labor, and Mom had died giving birth to the first female McMallard.

Mallory had tried her whole life to win, and yet she was blamed for the one thing she could never fix. Dad never actually said Mallory was the reason her mother was dead, but he never really had to. Actions said so much more than words ever could.

Mere seconds had passed as she watched her father glare at her. He had never been good with words, but she finally understood him as they stared at one another.

She dumbly nodded to his request, as if her agreement made the future set in stone. Another rupture caused steam to come blowing out through the vents, startling her from doing anything more. She jumped back from the hot pressurized air, her face distorting in pain as she watched her dad.

They had never got along, and yet she ended up on the Guardian with him while her four brothers led or followed convoys on the ground, fighting the murderous Hunter Drones and Raptors plaguing their city, their home.

Their world.

Her brothers were below her, and up here in the skies her father and a hundred strong flew the massive battleship in an attempt to take down the Saurian's mothership, the large Raptor-like blood-red ship of mass destruction.

They had failed. It had disappeared, or gone invisible thanks to some foreign technology, and had left them completely unprepared. They knew how the Saurian ships had avoided detection from their monitoring satellites around the planet, now, but at a high cost.

Mallory watched her dad turn his attention back to the controls, his focus solely on guiding this giant broken vessel somewhere out of dense populations, away from the mass crowds in the city and the convoys trying desperately to protect them.

He would not turn back to her anymore; she knew that. She hesitated, watching him, but even as she hesitated she felt her feet draw back towards the exit. They betrayed her heart, her every fiber to stay—

—because it was pointless. She could do no more here.

She grew angry at the tears that formed, and she grew furious as she felt herself take another step back.

"Mallory, we gotta go!"

She jolted at her name being called behind her. She turned to find a fellow cadet—what was his name again?—see her from the hall. The steam clouded the room now and she could not see her father.

She felt her bad arm being pulled and hissed at the pain, but she let the cadet pull her. It made her feel like she wasn't making the decision alone; that she wasn't abandoning her father because of an order.

The cadet pulled her back into the chaos of the hall, as smoky and hot as ever. She let the pain of her arm cloud her thoughts as the fellow student led the way, avoiding fires from the side rooms or jumping over broken pieces of duct and wall that had begun to litter the floor. She told herself the tears were from the smoke irritating her eyes as they zigzagged through the passageways of what was once the largest military vessel Puckworld had ever had to defend its home.

The Guardian, the protector of the lands for almost a century, was plummeting to its grave.

They reached the evacuation center and found two gliders. The cadet let her go and began strapping himself in.

"Come on, Mal!"

Mallory, like a robot, got in her own glider and strapped herself in. She pulled on the controls to adjust them to her comfort level and nodded to her partner. They simultaneously pushed the eject button and found themselves falling to the city below, the Guardian a behemoth of fiery entrails above and to their left.

The wings of the glider instantly spread and they aimed their mini airships to the city's rendezvous point. They would meet up with the convoys there, if they were still holding the location, and they would end this fight.

They would win this battle.

They would win this war.

Minutes later, as they began to sail to through the tall buildings, Mallory heard the inevitable sounds of an airship taking its final breath. Even at this distance she felt the heat of the subsequent explosions and—taking a brave chance to look in her side mirror—saw that the bay had taken the brunt force of its crash.

He did it.

Now she needed to hold her promise.

fin


	3. Canard

Inspired by the song, "Hold on for Your Life" by Sam Tinnesz. Takes place during the episode, "Mad Quacks Beyond Hockeydome."

* * *

 _Hold on. . . ._

He was so tired.

His body ached, his fresh wounds overlaid old scars, and he hadn't had a decent meal in days.

The cell he was in was damp, dark, and riddled with filth that should've made this entire area a biohazard. His sorry excuse for a cot mattress was worn so thin he might as well have been sleeping on metal springs.

Tonight was the last set of the games at Hockeydome. They had runs of them, usually lasting three or four days, and then the stadium took a couple days off to find new "recruits", repair the worst of the damage on the ice, and supposedly clean up the facility.

By way of his cell, he was more skeptical of the last part.

Once the round of games was completed, his "owner" would be back to retrieve him. Like the last set of games, they would give him a decent meal for having survived all the rounds, and would put in a small amount of money in treating his injuries.

After all, it was worth fixing up one of your more industrious fighters when they made you a profit after each tournament.

A sudden explosion of, "OH!"s and "AH!"s filtered through the large hallway. Someone had done something rebellious.

The crowd was never surprised by the gory nature of death that occurred on the ice; they would applaud and cheer no matter who won, and they would just get louder and happier if the ice became covered with the insides of whatever player got annihilated.

They were here for the violence and nothing less: while they would root for the team or player they hedged their credits on, it wouldn't be a good game until someone was murdered.

No, the audience's collective reaction was because someone had tried to fight the system.

The tan mallard slowly sat up off his pathetic bed, groaning a bit from his sore ribs. He had learned the hard way, too, that you couldn't fight the system.

Not alone.

It was tempting—since they let you pick a weapon to use—to take the upper hand and put a stop to the torment they put you through each day. But they wanted you to try, try and fail so painfully that you would lose all hope for escape.

So they let you pick and use your weapon against them, just so you can learn that it only works on the ice; and they let you aim your weapon at the emperor, just so you can watch it bounce off the force field like a rubber ball.

They knew it would break you, and they cherished it.

 _Hold on. . . ._

There was more commotion outside, and he could hear the distinct voice of a female in the distance.

He listened, his brow furrowing as he did. Is that. . . ?

No, that's not possible.

They were a few hallways away, whoever it was, their speech mumbled and faint from the labyrinth of cells. But it was _so_ familiar to him.

He shook his head. This place was making him insane.

How long had it been? Months, for sure. He'd been teleported to some desolate planet with minimal technology, and had to bargain his way onto a cargo ship to get the hell out.

He wasn't completely out of sight from home; most knew of Puckworld, though convincing anyone to travel to a warzone wasn't the most easiest of tasks.

It had been about two months ago when he tried to bargain with the wrong crew, and subsequently ended up as a bartering tool himself.

They didn't have many ducks in the Hockeydome, because most didn't survive long enough to become well-known.

Canard was different.

He'd been trained in survival, and had the know-how for most weapons that were provided to the players. He survived where others couldn't, and that made him an instant favorite with the audience.

"—creep!"

Canard jumped up, ignoring the protest of his ribs and legs. He _did_ know that voice!

"MALLORY!" he yelled, running up to the bars.

He did his best to look down the hall, hoping beyond measure that they were taking her in his direction.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Canard growled and hit the wall, only grimacing slightly when he felt the muscle in his shoulder scream at the jostling. He started pacing within his cell, the adrenaline soaring through his system.

And all because of a faint voice.

But it _had_ to have been her. He had never hallucinated before about the others, and there were times he wish he had, if only to take his mind off reality for a little bit.

No, this was definitely her. Were the others with her?

He walked up to the bars, ready to yell, when a lion-like guard walked by, two other cat-like guards following behind him. The lion glanced in Canard's direction, and gave the mallard what looked like a double-take, before returning his attention in front of him.

Canard watched him intently, his suspicion growing as the lion glanced at him twice.

"Hey!" he called out as the guards passed him.

The lion did not respond and, upon closer inspection, he noticed that the other two guards were holding weapons against the lion's back.

He was their prisoner.

Was he the one that had caused the audience to gasp? It must've been recent, whatever he did to get arrested: he was still in the armor that the emperor's security wore. Canard watched as the guards guided the lion down the hall and into the room beyond, the door hissing shut behind them.

Canard scowled at the door for a while before returning his attention to the other side of the long hallway. "WING!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, more for the release of his own frustrations than anything else.

If Mallory was here, Wildwing and the rest of the team should be too, right?

He had so many questions. Did they follow Dragaunas? Did they kill him? Did they get out of the gateway and return to Puckworld?

He hadn't seen another duck since he'd been teleported through that electromagnetic worm. His desperation made him selfishly hope that the team had been captured like him, and we're now here planning their escape.

 _Hold on. . . ._

An unknown amount of time passed in Canard's destitute prison before he could hear the crowds ramping up again. The announcer's voice was foreign and muffled, making it impossible to pick out any actual words being said. The typical buzz of excitement could be heard for a while until booing started to take over. He listened intently but couldn't pick up anything else.

Usually, jeering meant no players perished during the scrimmage.

It didn't happen often, since the beings that ran these games made sure to never pair two prisoners together. There were plenty of other aliens itching to play a deadly game of hockey to keep the game interesting, at least by their standards.

The last thing they wanted was two prisoners standing up to the regime and refusing to play.

More silence followed, which meant they were in the lull between matches. Canard had already played today, and by silently counting the number of intermittent cheers from the crowd, he guessed the games should be nearing their end. They typically had about twenty games a day, and Canard had guessed there to have been about eighteen by now, not including his.

During his competition today he had been faced with an alien that he had never seen before: it had black fur, a small snout with sharp teeth, and wings that connected his arms to the sides of his body.

Having your opponent capable of taking flight made for a very uneven match. Canard had been divebombed multiple times, and one hit in particular sent him against the boards and left his ribs feeling like they'd been snapped off and glued back on.

Canard's only redemption came from the odd anatomy of the creature's wing and arm attachment: he was able to use his hockey stick and jab it into the alien's wingspan, throwing it off balance and away from him. One lucky maneuver sent it into one of the pools that would occasionally be opened during a match, and a few nasty tentacles sealed the fate of his opponent by dragging him into the depths of the icy water.

A loud buzzer sounded and startled Canard out of his thoughts. The sound was something the tan mallard had only heard a few times in his months of playing: when enough were captured, or when they had a few groups of aliens interested in competing, team play could commence.

It was usually saved for the last day of play, seeing as though the violence and bloodshed were amped up tenfold. It finished the tournament with a bang, and it usually left the rink so badly damaged that repairs would need to be done before any more games could proceed.

Canard had never been a part of group play, at least not yet. He imagined he was far more valuable as a single player, given the amount of games he had managed to survive since being captured. A part of him wondered why he continued to fight and subsist; what was the point?

 _Hold on. . . ._

In the distance there was some commotion; voices. He strained to listen, getting as close to the electrified bars as far as he could so he could peer down the long hall.

Nothing. After a few moments they faded and he emitted a loud growl.

He cursed to himself and walked away, resuming his pacing within the small confines of his lonely imprisonment.

Team play had to mean they were all here. Mallory's voice couldn't have just been a coincidence. He needed to get out of this cell, if only so they could know he was alive and enslaved in these death games with them.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried to escape in the past. He knew these cells so well: the ventilation was too small to traverse, the drains in the floor were about the size of his fist, and the control box for the electrical cell bars was encased in an extraordinarily strong alloy that, despite his best attempts, could not be removed or bent to allow access.

The bars themselves sent a jarring bolt of electricity through you if you touched them, and the only way to deactivate them was with a handprint and personalized access code.

Team play was usually much louder, and as Canard waited and listened he could tell that there was quite a bit going on. The crowds were loud and boisterous, which meant they were getting to see quite a bit of violence.

Would his team even still be alive after this?

After what felt like forever, another buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. Canard's pacing stopped and he returned to the front of the prison, keeping his eyes on the long, empty hall.

There was nothing but silence as he waited, and he realized after a few moments he'd been subconsciously holding his breath. He took a deep, quiet sigh and grinded his teeth in anticipation.

Still nothing.

Just when he was about to step back he saw his electrified bars flicker. He blinked and stared at them, unsure if what he saw was real or not. They were still on, but it was clear they had lost some power: the bars were made of a thick laser-like alien energy, but the bars before him now were thinner and weaker.

Power had been rerouted somewhere, and a lot of it. He looked at his bars, back out in the hallway, and impulsively reached his hand out to touch the energy.

He felt the shock, but only at a fraction of what it usually did to body contact. His adrenaline racing from his risky movement, Canard reached out again and held his hand under the energy.

He hissed at the burning pain but realized very quickly that he could hold his hand _under_ the laser—at least for a few moments—and cut off the connection below to create a gap within the cell bars.

That was the only motivation he needed. He quickly ran back and grabbed his cot mattress, hoisting it over his head and running back to the entrance. He had tried this escape attempt in the past, but had learned rather painfully that the alien energy at full power would send any material bouncing off it, and would simultaneously serve as a conduit for its strong bolt of electricity.

Canard took a deep breath and, with mattress poised over his head, pushed himself through the bars. As the laser beams hit the mattress their energy was transported to both the cot mattress and—by proxy—to Canard. He hollered at the pain, which was much stronger when multiple beams were electrocuting you, but he ignored it and pushed harder.

 _Hold on. . . ._

With a strangled yell he was through. He collapsed on the ground, the mattress falling next to him and looking rather charred along its surface. He took a few shaky breaths as he got to his hands and knees, cautiously looking around to make sure he hadn't gathered the attention of passersby.

His limbs were tingling from the amount of electricity that passed through him. He felt like his breath should've been smoking from it. Standing up, Canard stumbled a bit as he tried to regain muscle control of his legs, but after a few wobbles he found his footing and began navigating through the hallways, keeping close to the walls and peering around corners before crossing intersections.

A bunch of hollers and yells startled the tan mallard and he thought he'd been caught. He looked around, ready to run, but found nobody nearby.

It had come from the parallel hallway across from him.

Canard took the chance and followed the commotion. He reached the end of his corridor and turned the corner, only to see Emperor Charg and a horde of guards running perpendicular past him, through the passage and on to Canard's left.

He quickly hid behind the corner again, waited for them to pass, and then trailed behind them at a safe distance. He reached the long passageway they had been running through and cautiously glanced around the junction.

They were still running towards the end, shots being fired from both sides. Canard felt his breath hitch in his throat when he saw the group beyond.

Wildwing and Nosedive were up front, firing at the gang to try and slow them down. Mallory, Duke, and Grin were behind them, with Mallory the only one firing. Duke and Grin were covering someone—Tanya—at the control station to what looked like a teleportation device.

They were escaping!

He wanted to call out to them but knew that he couldn't. He would either distract them and get someone killed, or he'd garner the attention of the emperor and end up on the wrong side of those weapons.

The ducks were at the end of an L-shaped corridor; that meant there was another route to them. He swiftly turned back the way he came and found the next hallway that was parallel to the ongoing battle.

He turned right at the next connection and bolted down the passageway, reciting a silent "Please," over and over again as he closed the distance.

Faster. Faster!

Time felt like it had slowed down to a crawl. He reached the end of the hall and turned right, only to see Wildwing roll under a closing metal door. The bang of metal contacting metal reverberated throughout the facility as the heavy door shut, and a bright light escaped through the cracks of the room as the rest of the Strike Force was teleported away.

Canard's momentum was strong and he nearly fell forward as he forced himself to a stop. The emperor and his minions had reached the teleportation chamber and someone used their hand on the access module to reopen the door.

The mallard backtracked silently and hid around the corner, watching as the emperor became angry and yells of aggravation erupted from his team when the chamber revealed itself to be empty.

They hovered in the area for a while, most likely trying to find where they went. Canard kept watch on them, occasionally checking his surroundings to ensure he was still alone in his immediate vicinity. Eventually the emperor was carted off on his traveling throne, his followers close behind.

Canard wasted no time. He quietly but hurriedly made his way to the teleportation chamber, glancing down the hall to ensure that the emperor and his mob had left.

The chamber had been left open, which meant it was unlocked and did not need the handprint of someone with authorization. But the other buttons were not labeled and provided no indication of what to type in or how to use them.

And since the emperor had left in a fit, it was likely that they could not trace where Wildwing and the rest of the team had gone.

Canard stared at the control module and fought the urge to slam his hand into it. He had been so close to reuniting with them.

Now what was he to do?

A sudden small rustling from the other end of the hall surprised Canard and he made a jump into the teleportation room, pressing himself into the corner where the doorjamb provided a small means of obscurity.

He had no weapons on him. He had been so preoccupied with finding his teammates that he didn't think about ways to defend himself.

The rustling got louder and became more recognizable as footsteps. Canard held his breath as he heard beeps on the other side of the wall, and only realized too late that it was the buttons on the control module.

A female lion-like alien, dressed in a uniform that the general staff wore in the facility, hastily entered the teleporter and turned around to aim her gun at the opening. Her simple red top and pants contrasted oddly with the short purple hair she had, which she had brushed to one side of her face and had somehow managed to immobilize it, either with a ton of gel or some other alien technology Canard was not privy to.

She only noticed Canard after she turned around and the door to the chamber was halfway shut. Her aim quickly turned towards the duck, but by then Canard had already sized up the situation and made his decision.

As the door closed and the teleportation machine turned on, Canard ran up to the lioness and grabbed her arm, triggering the teleportation energy to take him as well. An echo of her loud, "HEY!" was all that was heard as they were both beamed away.

 _Hold on. . . ._

Despite his best attempts in the last twenty minutes, Canard still found himself down the wrong end of a gun as he opened his eyes. Nevertheless, he felt himself release an internal sigh of relief as he glanced at his surroundings and saw that he had been transported to another, similar teleportation chamber. The room he was in now had the same layout as the one at the Hockeydome, but this one had blue walls and was much more outdated with rusted metal and peeling paint.

"BACK UP!" the lioness shrieked at him, her weapon under Canard's beak and jabbing in his throat.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" Canard responded, his arms up in surrender as he took a few steps back. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

The lioness squinted in confusion at his statement, but quickly stayed to the task at hand. "Back out of the room. NOW."

Canard followed her instructions, only glancing back twice to make sure he didn't run into anything as he took his steps outside.

"JEX!" the lioness screamed at the top of her lungs as she exited the room with Canard, her eyes never leaving sight of the duck.

"I'm not with them," Canard offered. "I was trying to esc—"

"SHUT UP!" she hollered at him. Her eyes twitched with anxiety as she briefly glanced away from the mallard. "JEX, DANGIT, COME HERE!"

Canard obediently waited with the lioness, afraid to make any more sudden movements. She wasn't exactly the most stable of creatures, and the last thing Canard wanted was to get shot by someone who was most likely on the same side as him.

"What is it?" a gruff voice asked from behind Canard.

"He jumped me when I was porting out."

"I didn't _jump_ you," Canard argued. "I simply tagged along for the ride."

Jex, as Canard guessed, was a large cat-like creature with strong shoulders, a lithe body, jet black hair braided into dreadlocks, and round furry ears. His snout was longer than what Canard had seen on the other cat and lion aliens, but his hands had the same razor claws of one. Nonetheless, he did not seem as frightening as he should have, thanks to a very laidback demeanor he was portraying.

Jex had been facing the lioness, but now turned to confront him. "Without permission, I might add?"

Canard shrugged. "Like I told her, desperate times call for desperate measures."

"You got a death wish or something?"

"Not exactly, or else I would've stayed in my cell."

Jex cocked his head slightly at the duck, but after a moment his eyes widened. "Wait a minute, you're the Survivor!"

Canard's hands, which were still in surrender position, finally returned to a relaxed pose. His face, however, twisted in confusion. "Uh, what?"

Jex nodded as if his question had been answered, pointing at Canard and turning to the lioness. "It is. Yula, you brought home the Survivor!"

Yula, as she was called, still had her gun trained on Canard. She shook her head in disbelief. "Nah, there were lots of ducks in the Hockeydome tonight. Ain't him."

"Survivor?" Canard asked again.

"Most ducks don't last long in Hockeydome, except you. Crowds love you, and have nicknamed you Survivor for, uh, obvious reasons." Jex grinned and shook his head at Canard. "Kind of surprised it took you this long to get out of there."

Canard frowned at the cat. "Been a prisoner in Hockeydome recently? I'd like to see you try and escape."

"Those other ducks did it on the same day," Yula argued back.

"You don't by chance know where those ducks went, do you?" Canard asked, his hands coming to rest on his hips. "They teleported out right before you did."

"Earth."

All three occupants in the small room looked over to the source of the voice. It was the lion guard Canard had seen earlier in the evening, and sporadically throughout his stay in the Hockeydome. He was still wearing the official armor that the emperor's security wore, and the badge on his chest plate shined from the small light in the room. Without visible pupils and with his sharp fangs, the lion-like alien appeared much more menacing than Jex and Yula.

Canard nonetheless growled at him. "What the hell are you doing here?!"

Yula's gun had fell slightly during their conversation, but Canard's sudden aggression caused her to aim it at him again.

The lion guard brought one of his hands up, signaling to Yula to lower her weapon. "He has only seen me as a guard, so he is not aware." The alien turned and looked at Canard. "I was planning to return for you this evening, after seeing how loyal your species is.

"I was not aware you knew who they were."

Canard growled and shook his head. "You've been a lackey there as long as I've been a prisoner. I'm supposed to believe you're suddenly a good guy?"

"I am Kazor, and I had remained infiltrated in the emperor's command for some time. It allows us access to supplies and fighters, which is necessary when you are building a resistance."

 _Resistance_. Memories flooded Canard's mind at the word, but he mentally shrugged it off. "You mentioned they went to Earth. Do you know how to get me there?"

Kazor shook his head. "I know of its location, but we will need a ship to get us there, since there are no teleportation stations on the planet. If you can help us take down Emperor Charg and his Hockeydome, I promise you the ship and coordinates necessary to find your friends."

The lion held out his hand to Canard. "Will you join the Resistance?"

Canard looked at the aliens before him, down to Kazor's hand, and back to the teleportation chamber.

 _Hold on. . . ._

He would find his team, one way or another.

He shook Kazor's hand.

 _I'll find you._

fin


	4. Duke

Honor

* * *

Big Ben struck loudly, signaling the late evening hour in London. Duke could not see the clock from his vantage point, but to be honest he had seen more than enough of it in his short time on Earth.

He adjusted his large coat as he waited on the icy steps of the nondescript building. Aside from a few curious glances, the combination of night and the culture's tendency to keep to their own business had managed to keep his alien celebrity magnetism down to a low hum.

In other words, he wasn't being gawked at.

The chilly wind was keeping quite a few travelers at home, as well, or making them shell out the money for fare instead. Nonetheless, Duke wasn't perturbed by the frigid temperatures; after all, he grew up in the belly of a major city that averaged -23 Celsius for a better part of Puckworld's orbit, or a year in Earth terms.

Tanya had mentioned their orbit back home was longer than on this world, which explained why humans with the same young age as the ducks were wholly more immature.

Nosedive was 17, and granted—he was pretty immature for his Puckworldian age—but Drake almighty, the sum of responsibility in Earth's teenagers equated to what a ten-year-old back on Puckworld would have.

The door next to him creaked open a few inches, an inviting ambient glow escaping from inside. Duke waited a few moments and, when nothing else happened, he casually and quickly opened the door the rest of the way to sneak in.

The warmth of a fire met his face as he entered and shut the door behind him. The entryway led immediately to an inviting living area, equipped with a large fireplace, two small chairs, and a nearby sofa. The entry way and its surrounding area was vacant, leaving Duke alone in the quaint room.

An empty coatrack stood next to the front door. Duke took the initiative and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the old wooden piece of furniture. He added his scarf around the hook and removed his gloves, shoving them into one of the pockets of his long jacket.

He took the opportunity to look around and warm up some, the instant change of temperature causing him to become inexplicably drowsy. It reminded of him of the Brotherhood: there was nothing more inviting than a long night of performing a heist in the middle of a blizzard, followed up by the warm breath of the hideout as he successfully made his way home with stolen goods in a sack on his back.

The nostalgia was strong and it made Duke miss his old home. Several levels underground and a separate labyrinth next to the old sewer systems, the Brotherhood was the result of many eras of hard work, leadership, comradery, and a hierarchical system that was respected and honored.

In a lot of ways it was not unlike the military, something that Mallory would probably scoff at. Duke knew that thievery was inherently an unethical trade, but it had been his livelihood. He made no attempts to believe that his brethren tried to steal from only those deserving of it, or that the eventual downfall of morality happened time and time again when certain members became too unwavering in their jobs or self-proclaimed duties.

It was a small gray area between right and wrong that Duke had constantly battled: when _was_ it crossing the line?

His hand almost subconsciously went to his eye patch, answering his own unasked question.

There was a loud beep, startling the dark gray mallard. He outwardly appeared unfazed, though, as he turned to the source of the noise. Per his instructions, he was to wait here until it was clear where he was to proceed.

The beep had originated from a bookcase next to the fireplace. He watched as the entire case slid to the side, revealing a cool metal elevator that looked out of place in this cottage-style living room.

He promptly walked up to it and entered the large metal cabin, turning around once he was inside. The door to the elevator shut shortly after and he felt the shift in pressure as he began moving downwards. Despite the building appearing to be only two stories, it was quite clear that there was much more hidden beneath its charming architecture.

He waited about twenty seconds until he felt the elevator slow to a stop. It beeped again as the door slid open, and he was instantly greeted with two guns being pointed in his direction.

"At ease, gentleman," someone said behind the two guards. The men obeyed the command, holstering their respective weapons but keeping their eyes on Duke the entire time.

Unlike the guardsmen he had encountered at Big Ben, these officers were in nondescript uniforms. They were most likely a part of MI5, or whatever Britain's own secret service was called again. Earth was a much larger planet than Puckworld, and because of it every country seemed to have their own version of government and defense. He had been briefed before coming here, but after ten minutes of rather monotonous instruction he had begun tuning out the representative that had visited Anaheim.

Duke had only perked up again when being instructed on how to enter the hidden underground prison, seeing as though it was either that or get shot at.

That same representative was here now, as he was the speaker who had commanded the officers to lower their weapons. He stepped between the two burly men and held out his hand to Duke.

"Welcome to the Queen's Den," the representative—Agent Taylor, if Duke was remembering correctly—addressed.

Duke shook his hand and nodded. "Dis is quite the, ah, setup you got here," he offered, taking the opportunity to observe his surroundings.

The large hallway was made of an alloy that looked like the Pond. In fact, as he scrutinized it more he realized it was the _exact_ same alloy as the Pond.

Most of the interior of the Pond was made of a compound that did not rust or mold. Tanya had worked with some engineers she had met at Lectric Land when they first arrived on Earth and had made a deal with them to provide the chemical structure in return for a large—very large—quantity of the stuff. The engineers could then take the recipe and claim credit for it.

It was a very basic alloy that had been used on Puckworld for as long as Duke could remember, so it wasn't really credit Tanya could take anyways. Nonetheless, the human engineers obliged and the majority of the Pond's lower floors were created out of the material to require as minimal maintenance as necessary.

It was likely that, in the past year that they had been on Earth, that alloy had become a staple commodity throughout most of the allied militaries of the world. That, or it had been commercialized in the United States and sold to whoever was willing to pay for it.

Either way, the hallway they were standing in seemed to stretch quite a distance, with multiple doors offering alternative routes throughout the large complex. A chunk of it was still under construction, supposedly, but one section Duke knew was completed:

The section that housed Falcone.

"Yes, indeed," Agent Taylor replied to Duke's comment. "Technology has come a long way in the past century and has cut down construction time to a fraction of what it used to be. Quite marvelous, really."

After their handshake Agent Taylor motioned Duke to follow him as he turned and began walking the other direction. The two guards remained stationed at the elevator's entrance as Duke obliged and began following the officer.

"Where's your teammate?" Agent Taylor asked as he slowed his stride down enough to walk alongside the gray mallard.

Duke had only traveled to Britain with Nosedive, and from Agent Taylor's singular use of the word 'teammate' it was obvious that his agency had been keeping tabs on that. The agent most likely already knew the answer to his own question, but Duke responded anyways: "He's watchin' the Aerowing."

It wasn't that they didn't trust Britain. After all, the country was housing a criminal Puckworldian in a prison that they essentially designed for the Raptrin. Both Tanya and Duke had helped the government secure Falcone, since he was a well-known escape artist. But the ducks didn't know this area like they did Anaheim, and while Britain's government may have been allies, it was likely that many other unknown foes were just waiting for the opportunity to prey on the ducks' technology.

Agent Taylor did not seem taken aback by Duke's comment, so the officer at least had enough sense to realize it wasn't a direct insult to anyone in particular.

They had been zigzagging through multiple hallways by now, and while Duke was very good at memorizing his path, he could tell that the base was purposely built like a maze as an additional protective measure against potential escapees.

Agent Taylor had also used his badge four separate times to open various doors throughout the facility, another defensive tactic to keep people—or in this case, a Raptrin—locked in.

After the fourth badge swipe and another few random hallway turns, Duke and Agent Taylor found themselves in front of a large door guarded by two more officers. Agent Taylor turned to Duke as they approached the large doorway.

"You will need to relinquish your sword and knives here. They will be returned to you upon your return."

"I was wonderin' when you were gonna ask me fer t'em," Duke answered as he pulled his saber off his shoulder holster and handed it to one of the officers. He had already been told beforehand that this was policy, but only his saber was visible to the naked eye. His other knives were tucked into his boots, which meant he had been scanned at one point during his trip down here.

He obediently removed the additional weapons and handed them over as well. Agent Taylor nodded to the guards afterwards, and in turn one of the officers typed in the necessary access code to open the large door he was securing.

Agent Taylor made his way through the newly opened walkthrough, Duke following close behind. Along both sides of the hall were prison cells. As they walked past about three sets of them on either side, Duke noticed that they were all eerily empty and equipped with nothing more than the basic cot, toilet, and sink.

They stopped at the fourth set of cells and turned to the right to face one; it also appeared empty.

Agent Taylor took his badge and swiped it across the console next to the cell bars, causing the hologram to disappear and reveal the true interior of the cell.

Falcone, in basic prison garb, was standing and leaning against one of his cell walls, obviously expecting his visitors. While the hologram had depicted a very barren interior, the reality of his décor inside was slightly nicer: he had a small privacy wall for the toilet, a slightly thicker mattress for his cot, and even a small flat screen television mounted to the wall.

The hologram that had been hiding Falcone's room had also been a sound barrier, apparently, because the television was on and quietly talking as the evening news played on it.

"Doesn't it make it kinda hard to guard d'ese prisoners when you don't know if anyone's inside?" Duke asked, perplexed at both the purpose of and the technology being used in the weird, soundproof disguise.

"Those guarding the cells by video can see and hear clearly. The force fields being used here are to dissuade prisoners from conversing with one another. Some of the most brilliant minds are housed in the Queen's Den, and the less they can mingle together the better."

"Why thank you for such a lovely compliment, Henry," Falcone spoke up, facetiously placing his hand on his chest as if he'd been truly grateful for the unintended compliment.

The agent was smart enough to ignore the Raptrin. He turned back to Duke and simply said, "When you are ready to leave, Mr. L'Orange, please knock on the main door."

Duke nodded to Agent Taylor's instructions. The officer nodded back and quietly walked back down the hall, the large door shutting behind him. The two Puckworldians were left in relative silence after his retreat, and Duke had to wonder how many of the other cells were actually occupied as the agent had suggested.

"Ha! _Mr. L'Orange_. If he only knew the crimes you committed on Puckworld, I wonder if he'd still be so proper to you?" Falcone straightened up off the wall, advancing towards the bars of the cell.

Duke did not answer, only crossing his arms in response to Falcone's brash comment.

Falcone stopped short of touching the cell bars, which was wise considering they were electrified. The two Brotherhood members stood their ground, neither wavering from eye contact for some time.

Eventually, however, Falcone offered a dramatic sigh and turned back around in his cell. "Do you like my abode, Brother? It is rather charming; much better than that drab, dank basement I had been in before." The Raptrin had made a small circle in his cell, his arms wide to gesture at his surroundings as he spoke. He turned his snarky smile towards Duke and languidly walked back up to the bars. "It is rather flattering that this place was built on my behalf, I must admit."

The former thief did not reply to the Raptrin.

Falcone watched him again for a moment, his eyes calculating as ever. "I suppose you are wondering why I requested your presence."

Silence.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Falcone's face, but he covered it quickly. "Congratulations, by the way, on destroying the last Saurian Overlord. You'll be heroes back home."

"He isn't dead," Duke spoke for the first time, his voice even and neutral in tone.

Falcone, happy to get a response at all, raised his eyebrows at that remark. "Oh?" He pointed to his television. "I guess the media does exaggerate, then, because I'm pretty sure they showed a giant Raptor with flaming entrails plummet into the ocean."

"We destroyed his dimensional gateway generator, but his ship survived da crash."

"Been to the bottom of the ocean lately, hmm?"

Duke had no interest discussing with Falcone the ducks' plans to infiltrate the damaged ship next week. After the Raptor's crash into the ocean, they had negotiated the use of a U.S. Navy's submarine to check for any sign of life within the damaged vessel.

Unfortunately, they had found it.

After further negotiations, they were now preparing to board the ship and finish their mission once and for all.

The timing of Falcone's request to see the ducks had not gone unnoticed. The team knew he had access to current events and were cautiously curious to see what Falcone was wanting to address with them.

To show any semblance of hope to the master criminal, however, would doom them to his manipulation. That was also why Duke was alone on this trip: he knew Falcone better than anyone, and knew how to _not_ get played by the con.

When it was clear that Duke would not be responding to Falcone's earlier question, the Raptrin continued, "Regardless, it was a brave thing to do, destroying your only way home."

"Yer point?"

"Imagine if," Falcone's hands popped open quietly like he was performing a magic trick, "you didn't."

"An' imagine if the War ne'er happened. Get to the point, Falcone."

Falcone's dramatization floundered at Duke's apathy and he sighed again. "You really don't let me have any fun." He pouted slightly, but quickly shook it off and smiled at Duke. "What if I told you that we do have a way home, after all?"

" _We_?" Duke asked incredulously.

"When Dragaunas brought me here, I was provided a teleporter with the coordinates back home."

It was something the ducks suspected, but hearing it from the source itself left Duke speechless. He covered his surprise with disbelief. "Even if d'at was true, we destroyed its power source. Teleporter don't work wi'hout power, Falcone."

"Oh, don't pretend that your resident techy can't recreate the necessary energy to create a wormhole.

"What about that little genius human, hmm? Wasn't he creating an artificial crystal equivalent to beryllium?"

Duke bristled at the mention of Buzz Blitsman. He shouldn't have been surprised that Falcone knew about the young genius' molecular formula, but it bothered him nonetheless. Buzz had since managed to stabilize the chemical structure, and it was in its final stages before production. Everything about it was being kept quiet, as the element was much more refined than the natural beryllium found on Earth.

Most of the beryllium on Earth was akin to what coal was before being heated and pressurized into diamond. The beryllium used by Dragaunas had gone through a natural process that gave it its well-known ethereal orange glow, and the process involved to replicate it was far beyond Earth's current technology.

So, by skipping the process itself and going straight to the recreation of beryllium's final stage, Buzz had successfully created a crystal that would revolutionize the power industry on Earth.

Once people understood what the beryllium could do, Dragaunas wouldn't be the only one wanting to get their hands on the chemical structure.

Presently, Duke remained quiet. Falcone was smart enough, however, to already know the answer to his own question.

"My request is minimal, you know. All I ask is that you take me with you."

"An' let you go when we get d'here."

Falcone smiled ruefully. "You can always try to catch me, of course."

"We already 'ave, if you 'aven't noticed the ten-by-ten square yer in."

The prisoner crossed his arms, his smile never wavering. "You do _want_ to go home, don't you?"

Duke did not respond to the question right away, taking the time to calm his emotions and keep his tone neutral. A couple of calm, easy breaths later he replied, "Of course I do."

"Even with the Brotherhood ostracizing you? Your brother is in charge now, in case you haven't heard."

Duke shook his head, his own arms crossing over himself. "I'm not exactly privy to the going's on back home."

"No, perhaps not. But you mustn't be very thrilled knowing Colin is now in control."

"I'm not exactly surprised, e'ther."

"Truly, what will you do now? What's there to go back to?"

Duke glared at Falcone, his arms remaining lazily crossed even as his hands balled into tight fists from anger. "Yer right, what's d'ere to go back to? Guess d'at means I'll tell da ot'ers d'at yer lying."

The ex-thief turned around and began walking back to the door. From his peripheral vision he saw Faclone hurry up to the bars.

"You can fight your way back to the top, Duke! There are many that are still loyal to you."

Duke ignored him.

"Duke! This transporter can get us _all_ home. Surely you wouldn't do this to the rest of your team. They have families back home! Lives!"

Reaching the door, Duke's arm went up to knock.

"You told me I always had an out!"

The gray mallard's arm floundered.

Falcone, realizing he had finally hit a nerve with Duke, calmed the desperation in his voice. "I want to use that out now."

Duke's teeth grinded against one another, his arm floundering some more before he fully relaxed it. He took a deep breath before turning around and walking back to the Raptrin.

Falcone watched him eagerly. "I was hoping to save on to it for a little longer, but it seems this may be the only means I have to negotiate with you."

"Don't push yer luck, Faclone."

The Raptrin shook his head. "No, of course not. I'm just thankful that you are keeping your word."

"A deal is a deal, e'en if da deal is wit' someone who doesn't keep d'eir word."

Falcone dramatically grimaced. "Ouch. I suppose I deserve that." He motioned with his arm to his eye: the same eye of Duke's that had the bionic installment. "How is the, uh, replacement doing, anyways?"

Duke rolled his one good eye. "It works."

"And the uh, infrared scanner?"

"Yes, Falcone, da scanner still gives me heat signatures."

"Good, good. I'm glad that doctor was legit in at least that." Falcone's hands went to his hips as he studied Duke. "At least you got Colin's arm for it."

"I didn't take Colin's arm, _Ernie_. Last I saw it was still attached."

"Ugh, please do not call me that. But you know what I mean: his arm's never been the same, since."

An image of the event flashed through Duke's mind and he almost flinched from the memory. His older brother, Colin, had always been more about strength than agility, and that pivotal moment in their fight still felt like it happened in slow motion. Duke had brought his saber up in a defensive maneuver just as Colin had brought his own saber down in a stabbing motion.

He had been aiming for Duke's heart, but Duke's crouch and defensive position had left the tip of the sword slashing his eye instead.

It would've gone further, if Duke hadn't held out his arms and saber as far as they could stretch. Colin's own appendage holding the sword had been forcefully sliced open at the forearm, by Duke's defensive stance with his blade.

Both brothers had separated at that point, one holding their eye and the other their arm. The fight was considered over at that point, as per Brotherhood rules: disabling an opponent without outright killing them meant that the challenger had failed.

Duke maintained his leadership status, and Colin was forced to bow out of the fight.

Unfortunately, being a well-known Brotherhood member that the government was constantly trying to take down meant that Duke could not go to the hospital to get treatment.

Falcone was as slimy then as he was now, but he never failed in knowing the right duck at the right time. In this instance, he happened to have an old partner that performed quite a few black-market operations involving bionic replacements.

Duke had just wanted treatment for the eye, but it became quickly apparent that one could not swordfight without peripheral vision, at least not without re-training yourself from square one.

With Colin still alive and probably as angry as ever, Duke needed to wield his saber again as quickly as possible. And inspection of the damage from the shady doctor had told him that he would never be able to see through that eye again.

Not naturally, anyways.

The bionic fitting wasn't cheap, in more ways than one. In addition to a hefty sum of goods to the doctor, Duke had given Falcone a promise, one he had never made to anyone: an out.

Falcone had a penchant for getting himself in trouble, and when the time came where the Raptrin was figuratively or literally backed into a corner, one call to Duke would require the Brotherhood leader to lend him whatever was needed to set his smarmy friend free.

It was the largest price Duke had ever paid.

"It's a shame, about the rules. Without Colin's fighting arm you could've easily finished the job once and for all."

A low growl escaped Duke's beak before he could stop it. "I'm not a murderer, Falcone. Rules are d'here fer a reason."

"Yes, yes, we can rob 'em blind but no unnecessary bloodshed and all that head-held-high rubbish. Honestly Duke, are you that surprised Colin challenged you? We had to give up dozens of jobs because of your rules."

"My rules? You mean da rules of the Brot'erhood for six generations that I refused to change?"

Falcone waved him off. "Oh, whichever. Times change, ol' lad, and sometimes a little fighting was the only way we were going to survive."

Duke sighed and absentmindedly rubbed the top of his beak tiredly. "Where's the transporter, Falcone?" he asked, changing the subject.

Falcone was quiet at that, and Duke had to look up to see that the Raptrin was staring at him fiercely.

In a language that only Duke and Falcone would know on this planet—the Brotherhood language meant to be said only within the confines of their establishment—Falcone asked the simple question, "Does my Brother honor me?"

The Raptrin's simple words seem to cause time to stop as thoughts raced through Duke's mind. Everything was being recorded, and the ducks would no doubt watch everything unfold. At this point in time, they would assume that Falcone might've told Duke the whereabouts of the transporter in a foreign language.

Tanya would be suspicious, and would interrogate Duke on the language. Given time, she could probably translate it. It was not a hard language, but was never meant to be—it was something that was used within the Brotherhood as a means of recognizing one another. It was not meant to talk to each other without being understood on the surface. Allowing the misuse of the language there would allow for others to hear it, learn it, and mimic it, which would endanger the lives of those underground should an outsider find their way into their home.

The rules explicitly stated that the language was to be kept off the surface of Puckworld and only between those that were suspected to be Brotherhood members. By technicality, Falcone had not broken either rule, though he had to know this meeting was being watched intensively by others.

Falcone wanted the Brotherhood promise to his freedom, and Duke knew what that meant. Duke could pretend that he and his team would take Falcone back to Puckworld, to be tried for his crimes of treason. But his underlying promise to the Raptrin—by Brotherhood blood and honor—would mean he would have to let Falcone free once back home.

And he would have to accomplish it without arising suspicion of his teammates.

It was his promise to the Raptrin many years ago, and Falcone had decided to use it where it would hurt Duke the most.

In what had only been a couple seconds in passing, Duke responded to the Raptrin without using the secret language: "I promised you an out, Falcone. You're gettin' that out from Earth, so long as you tell me where that transporter is hidden."

Falcone's eyes squinted slightly, and he watched a subtle finger movement on Duke's right hand, just beneath the crook of his elbow where his arms were crossed. By way of the video cameras on either corner of the walls, the movement would not be picked up.

"That's all yer getting' from me," Duke continued. "When we get back to Puckworld, we'll see how well you deal wit' da Puckworld Forces Penitentiary."

Falcone's eyes widened at the mention of one of Puckworld's most notorious detention centers, but Duke knew it was a ruse. Falcone had recognized and understood the gray mallard's unspoken communication.

Despite his facetious act of surprise, Falcone quickly replaced the expression with a careful smirk. "You can do your best, ol' chap." He paused and made eye contact with one of the cameras.

"Tell your dashing captain of the group that, once the generator is created, I will _show_ you the location of the transporter." His calculating eyes levelled back to Duke's and he added, "Meanwhile, I'll enjoy the amenities of this fine establishment. Might as well enjoy the freedom I have now, until you solidify the good guy routine by dropping me in handcuffs at the Council's door, hmm?"

Duke did not respond. Falcone would have to be released to retrieve the transporter, and he knew the Raptrin would keep his word because—traitor or not—Falcone wanted to go home as badly as the rest of them.

He took a step back, watching as Falcone smiled ruefully at him. The Raptrin gave a cute little finger gesture of goodbye, barely moving his hand and only wiggling his fingers, before turning his attention back to the television still playing in quiet monotones.

A heavy weight rested on Duke's shoulders as he slowly turned around and headed to the door. He was the ex-leader of the Brotherhood of the Blade, and a pardoned thief for his assistance during the Saurian War.

He was a Strike Force member now, and hopefully with that title came the accomplishment of defeating Dragaunas once and for all.

But his heritage was a tentacle that had pulled him back for one last task. One last promise that was made what felt like an eternity ago.

"Keep in touch, Duke!"

Duke couldn't control his teeth from grinding together in irritation. He ignored the prisoner's call and knocked on the door as he'd been instructed, impatiently waiting as one of the guard members opened it so he could leave.

As he was handed his weapons, the heavy door to the set of cells closed with reverberation throughout the long hallway, and Duke felt the echo weigh him down even further.

He could lie, and tell his team what Falcone expected of him. They would ensure that Falcone's escape attempt would be in vain, even without Duke's help. They would help him if he just told them.

A saying passed through his head as he met up with Agent Taylor and was guided back towards the entrance to the facility:

 _Honor isn't about making the right choices. It's about dealing with the consequences._

Ex-thief or ex-leader, Duke was and would always be a Brother.

And he had a heavy promise to keep.

fin


End file.
